Missing Pieces
by moogsynth
Summary: Though from different worlds, Samantha and Darrin seem absolutely perfect for each other. The problem is, they haven't met yet, and they both feel that there's something missing in their lives. Please review! Feedback keeps me going!
1. Chapter 1

_**The challenge? Writing an M-rated "Bewitched" fanfic that actually fits within the canon. **_  
_The reason I wrote this in the first place was because most M-rated "Bewitched" fics either aren't very good or don't fit within the canon. For example, the Darrin/Larry slash on this website is well-written, but isn't canon. So, this story is attempting to be both, like *certain* Harry Potter fics (by no means all). However, by giving M-rated scenes (what I hope is a) good plot, the sex scenes do sort of become secondary to the plot now, don't they? Oh well._

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_**Missing Pieces**_

**by Moogsynth (with thanks to thatwitch)**

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_**Please review! They keep me going, and even if they're critical ones, it's a compliment to know that someone's actually reading this. Also, I do go back to already-published chapters at times when I feel like something needs fixing (for example, if someone mentions an error in a review). It's a surprise every read-through!  
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**Bewitched **_**and its characters, premise, and episodes are all copyright (c) Screen Gems/Sony. All non-source writing is copyright (c) the authors.**_

_**Eagle-eyed **_**Bewitched**_** fans will notice certain phrases and situations found in episodes, other media, related books, and even other fan fictions. The copyrights of those belong to their respective owners in this attempt to fill in the "missing pieces" and tie them all together. "Before They Were Married" was by AllThatJazz777; "Samantha's Story" was by Arfies; "Bewitched" the novel was by Al Hine; "The Seesaw Girl and Me" was by Dick York; and other small tidbits were from their respective writers. Dialogue from "I, Darrin, Take This Witch, Samantha" is by Sol Saks; "What Every Young Man Should Know" is by Paul David and John L. Greene. All due credit goes to each writer. Had this website allowed the posting of URLs, I would've just posted the episode excerpts from Hulu or YouTube, but unfortunately I had to transcribe them instead. A**__**t some point, I may host an "interactive" version of this story on another website with video clips, links to referenced fan fictions, and more. Watch this space!**_

_**Enjoy!**_

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**Chapter 1: The Cosmos Cotillion**

**February, 1953**

The blonde-haired, green-eyed witch Samantha was not having a particularly good time at the chic Cosmos Cotillion. Her identical (albeit raven-haired) cousin Serena threw herself at every man she met there in the pink-misted ballroom, but Samantha was more reserved. She wasn't a prude, but preferred taking her time in matters of romance rather than rushing into bed multiple times with wild abandon, like Serena often did. Her cousin did seem like she was having a ball, and sometimes Sam wondered why she didn't find the same joy in the carefree witch's lifestyle as Serena did . . . or anyone else, for that matter.

Truth be told, she found these witchly affairs rather boring. Samantha enjoyed the music (and indeed, they found a great band that year, as mortals had recently discovered rock 'n roll), but she didn't much enjoy her choice of suitors. Being one of the most beautiful witches in the Cosmos did have its perks—never did she lack a dance partner—but it also had its downsides. It seemed almost every single warlock she met wanted to try his luck with her, even the ones still so obviously tied to their overbearing mothers' apron strings. In Boston, half a century before, she politely turned down a gawky warlock named Clyde Farnsworth, who promptly had himself turned into a chair in grief.

Warlocks also tended to have massive egos. Her own father, Maurice, was certainly no exception to the rule, but at least he channeled his self-importance into a Shakespearean theatre career. Samantha's last long-term beau, a dashingly good-looking young warlock named George, regarded her as merely another "catch." George had seemed shocked when Samantha finally called off their relationship—after all, he hadn't been with_ that_ many other women, and he couldn't _help _being so attractive.

Alone at a table, Samantha sighed and took another sip of Kickapoo Joy Juice, watching her cousin flirt with the crowd of warlocks fighting each other for the chance to dance with her.

"Terribly boring, these things, don't you think?" a suave masculine voice asked from behind the blonde.

Samantha blinked and turned to face a tall, craggy-faced, yet devilishly handsome warlock in a double-breasted navy blue suit and burgundy ascot. She cracked a smile in spite of herself. "Yes, I suppose they are, aren't they?"

"I don't mean to be rude, of course, but across the room, it seemed to me like you needed some _divertissements_," the dark-haired warlock said. He snapped his fingers, and on the table in front of her, a tiny Pierrot clown and a ballerina appeared out of thin air and began to dance a _pas de deux_. After they finished, they bowed and disappeared in a puff of smoke.

Samantha smiled. "That was lovely. Thank you."

He bent down to kiss her hand. "I'm glad you liked it. My name is Rollo, and I'm delighted to have met your acquaintance."

"I'm Samantha, and the feeling is mutual," she grinned.

"Samantha, would you care to join me for the next dance? I do have one stipulation, however," Rollo warned.

"What's that?" Samantha asked, intrigued.

"That if you find it at all boring, you have to turn me into a toad," he winked.

Thoroughly charmed, Samantha stood up to take his arm. "Oh, I don't think I'll have to do that," she smiled.

* * *

Samantha's parents were utterly charmed by Rollo as well. Sam had been dating Rollo for some time, and when she decided they should meet her new beau, her parents were completely won over.

"Maurice, it's an honor to finally meet you," Rollo said as he shook her father's hand. "You were superb in _Hamlet_."

"Thank you, my boy. I did my best in spite of that ridiculous director," he puffed. "I hope that director feels even more ridiculous with a tail now," Maurice laughed wickedly.

Rollo chuckled in response. "And I can certainly see where Samantha gets her beauty from," he said, kissing Endora's hand. The red-haired witch of a mother cackled with delight.

"Rollo, you're just as dashing and debonair as your father," Endora said. "To be perfectly honest, I always hoped you and Samantha would court someday. Your father certainly raised you well. Why, sometimes I wish I had married him instead."

"I beg your pardon!" Maurice exclaimed.

"Oh, no one's holding you here, Maurice," Endora snapped. "Go back to whatever young witch you managed to scrounge up this month."

Maurice scoffed. "I most certainly will. But first, I'd like to talk to my daughter alone for a minute." He motioned to Samantha to pop out to a more private location. They did so.

"What was that all about, Daddy?" Samantha asked him.

"Nothing, my dear. Your mother just gets huffy sometimes. Besides, it's tit-for-tat, you know. She's been seeing that hack of an Australian John Van Millwood—who _dares_ to call himself an _actor_—just to raise my blood pressure."

Her parents' marital escapades were nothing new to Samantha. It must have been difficult to stay married to the same person for hundreds, if not thousands, of years. Although her parents were separated, they had never gone through with an ectoplasmic interlocutory. Still, Samantha wondered if it was possible for her to meet someone she could be with for the rest of his life.

"What do you think of Rollo?" Samantha asked her father.

"He seems like a fine young warlock," Maurice said approvingly. "And as I've always said, choose the right man of whom I approve and you'll be happy. Although no warlock is worthy of my daughter, of course," he winked.

Sam smiled. Even though her parents had a love-hate relationship with each other worthy of a mortal soap opera, they both cared about their only daughter's well-being very much.

"Now, my dear. Close your eyes and reach in my pocket. I have something for you," Maurice instructed his daughter, who promptly obeyed.

"Real theatre tickets? Oh, Daddy, thank you!" Samantha exclaimed, hugging him.

"Don't tell your mother," he gleamed. Endora never understood why Samantha had wanted such mundanely mortal things as tickets when she could have just popped into the theatre herself. After all, it was much easier, cost nothing, and contact with mortals was minimized. Samantha could have anything she ever desired with just a twitch of her pert nose, so why would she want to bother with such ridiculous rigmarole? Maurice never understood his daughter's fascination with the mortal world either, but he felt getting her the tickets was harmless enough. It wasn't as if she was interacting with mortals or anything inherently dangerous like that. Besides, anything that annoyed Endora was fine by him.

"You and Rollo enjoy yourselves," the warlock said. "I'm off to Morocco. Ta-ta, darling!" He brandished his scarlet cape and vanished with a crack of thunder.

Samantha rolled her eyes fondly. Her father always had a thing for grand exits.


	2. Chapter 2

**Chapter 2: The Party**

**November, 1961**

The mansion of J. P. Sommers was intimidating, even amongst the chilly grounds of the upper-class New York environs. Butlers, maids, and other servants were scurrying about, attending to the huge crowd assembled for J. P.'s exclusive black-tie party.

The McMann and Tate Advertising Agency recently landed Sommers' plum account, and to celebrate, J. P. was throwing one of his signature ostentatious galas.

Most of the crowd had moved to the parlor in a sea of tuxedos and bejeweled gowns, but two admen stayed conspicuously close to the open bar.

Larry Tate, the shrewd, mustachioed president of the agency, was certainly making good use of it. He was joined by Darrin Stephens, a young dark-haired copywriter new to the company who, he felt, showed a lot of potential. Normally only executives would attend a party like this, but Tate thought Stephens would give a fresh young face to an agency who sorely needed it. Larry took it upon himself to groom the new employee into the "right" kind of person that would serve McMann and Tate—and, most importantly, their clients—well.

"For example, who did you vote for in the election last year?" Larry asked Darrin as he downed yet another martini.

"Kennedy," replied Darrin.

"Shh!" whispered Larry, trying to silence his young employee. "We're in mixed company. Don't let anyone else in this crowd hear you say that. I don't want to risk losing a multimillion-dollar account just because you decided to vote for that Catholic."

"Why does that even matter? I thought he'd make a great President."

"Darrin, must I remind you we're in the heart of WASP country? Pure Nixon. Keep that Kennedy act up and they'll think you're a Communist or something. And that's the last thing this company needs."

"Oh brother," Stephens said, throwing back a shot.

"Darrin, I know we just officially brought you on board, but you have a lot to learn about advertising, and fast. Integrity doesn't feed the bulldog," Larry stated.

"What? Larry, that doesn't even make any sense. I think you've had a few too many."

"_I _have? You're the one sampling booze from every country in Europe."

"There's nothing else to do at this party, Larr!"

"Mingle, Darrin, mingle! Schmooze! It's what we're here for!"

Darrin rolled his eyes and finished the last of his brandy.

Larry slapped the copywriter on the back. "Come on. I'll introduce you to J. P." He pushed Darrin in the direction of the crowd, making his way through with handshakes, backslaps, and insincere smiles.

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J. P. Sommers was busy consoling his adult daughter, a brunette beauty resembling a hot Jackie Kennedy—but only in looks, of course. Politics and personality were another thing entirely.

"Oh, Daddy, I'm so bored," Sommers' daughter Sheila whined. "Everyone here is so _old_."

"Now, now, surely there's an eligible young bachelor here somewhere," her wrinkled father assured her as he examined the crowd. "I certainly invited enough people."

"You always say that! You _promised_ I'd meet someone. And I've been so _lonely_ lately. I can never trust you, Daddy!" she moaned.

"J. P.!" Larry exclaimed, finally breaking through the mass of humanity to interrupt the charming father-daughter moment. "How are you doing?"

"Fine, Tate, just fine!" he replied, grateful for the interruption.

"J. P., I'd like you to meet someone. Darrin Stephens, the brightest young man on Madison Avenue."

"Good evening, Mr. Sommers," Darrin said, shaking his hand. "We're looking forward to working with you."

Sheila's eyes immediately locked on the handsome adman. _This is more like it,_ she thought.

"Just call me 'J. P.' No need for the formality, young man. No need. Oh, and may I introduce you to my daughter Sheila."

"The pleasure is all mine," Darrin said, kissing her hand in a gentlemanly fashion. _She was gorgeous, all right._ Normally he wouldn't do something like that, but the alcohol had helped loosen him up somewhat, and he was relieved to meet someone at the party who was a bit more to his liking.

Sheila grinned to herself.

"Now you two young people go get to know each other. Tate and I have some business to discuss," Sommers said.

"Miss?" Darrin held out his hand. Sheila took it gratefully and followed him over to the punch bowl.

"Finally, someone worth talking to at this party," Sheila told him.

"The feeling's mutual," Darrin said. "Would you like some punch?"

"Of course," she replied, inspecting his handsome boyish features—a great improvement from the old fogies her father usually brought over. Darrin was no Cary Grant, to be sure. His ears were a little big, and he had a pronounced widow's peak on his forehead. Still, he was certainly a step up from the older married businessmen typically gracing the household.

Darrin poured them both a glass as they chatted. _What a knockout_, he thought to himself. Perfectly coiffed, elegant, worldly, sophisticated—a far cry from the wholesome girls he knew back home.

"So tell me about yourself, Darrin," Sheila implored.

"Well, there's not much to tell," he replied, slightly buzzed. "I grew up in Missouri. My dad was a union man at the plant, and my mom stayed home with me and my sister Georgia—at least until Georgia ran off with a guy in the circus. My folks weren't too keen about that, and became kind of estranged from her. Anyway, I did pretty well in school, and graduated early from the University of Missouri—cum laude," he bragged. "After that, I joined the service. Went to Korea. Became a lieutenant."

"Ooh, an lieutenant," said Sheila. "I bet you were a hero," she grinned, squeezing his bicep.

"Oh, I wouldn't say that," Darrin replied modestly. "I don't like to talk about it much."

"A man of mystery. I see," smirked Sheila as she touched his face.

"Anyway, once that was over with, I got into advertising, and I've been working my way up ever since."

"Fascinating," Sheila said, putting down her glass. "More punch?"

"No thanks," Darrin said. "I've had enough to drink tonight. Wouldn't want to take advantage of a girl like you, especially when my company is handling your father's account."

Sheila smirked again as she moved her lips past his cheek. "I wouldn't mind that at all," she purred in his ear, running a long manicured finger down his shirt, stopping just below his belt line and flicking her finger up. "Besides, the punch is non-alcoholic."

Darrin laughed nervously. "Uh, well, um, I think I'd better check on Larry. Nice meeting you." Red-faced, he quickly attempted an exit through the crowd to his boss.

Sheila pouted. _I'm not going to let this one get away from me. Darrin just needed some . . . loosening up._ Out of slitted eyes, she spied some half-empty bottles at the bar and decided to put them to good use.

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"Larry?" Darrin swallowed. "Can I talk to you for a minute?"

"Excuse us, J. P.," Larry apologized, glaring at Darrin.

The older executive made his way over to Stephens.

"What is it? You just interrupted us setting up tee time."

"I'm sorry, Larr, but Sheila's . . . coming on kind of strong."

Larry stifled a laugh. "Oh, come off it, Darrin. Is that all?"

"But—surely this would be some sort of ethics issue?"

"Ethics, shmethics. They're only for people who don't know what they're doing."

"Oh, I think Sheila knows _exactly_ what she's doing," Darrin groused.

"Come on, you son-of-a-gun. A playboy like you can handle it," Larry softly punched him on the shoulder with a wink. "J. P.'s been trying to set his daughter up with successful men for years, and she's finally taken a liking to one. You."

"I'm just a copywriter. I'm not _that _successful, Larry."

"But she doesn't know that. Besides, if this Sommers account works out, you will be."

"Will be what?"

"Successful."

Darrin eyed him suspiciously. "I'd rather earn my success, thanks."

"Oh, come on, Darrin. You know how business works. It's not what you know, it's who you know. So get to _know_ her. Know what I mean?"

"Larry—"

"Consider this your first big assignment, Stephens. Use those people skills we hired you for. You're good at reading people and identifying what they want."

"That's what's worrying me."

"You don't have to do anything major. Just talk. Flirt a little. You like her anyway, right? A gorgeous girl like Sheila, especially when father's one of the richest men in the country? You can't say no to a doll like that."

"Sure I like her, I guess."

"Then what's the problem? If Sheila's happy, her father's happy. If her father's happy, our bank accounts are happy. Get it? Now hop to it!" Larry slapped him on the back and returned to discuss golf with J. P.

Darrin took a large breath, puffed up his chest in an attempt to gather some false confidence, and marched back over to the punch bowl, somewhat depressed.

Sheila batted her false eyelashes at him. "I hope everything is all right."

Darrin swallowed. "Sure. For the most part. I'm just thirsty."

"Well, we can remedy that!" Sheila grinned, perhaps a bit too enthusiastically. "Here, have some punch."

Darrin took a sip and coughed. "This tastes a lot different than before."

"Oh . . . well, it gets like that once the ice melts. It's fine," Sheila promised. "So what sorts of things did you do in high school? Public schools have always fascinated me." She tickled his lapel.

"Debate club, football, things like that." He swallowed the last of his drink. "Say, is it getting hot in here?"

"No, you're just dehydrated. Have some more punch."

Darrin obliged and continued to talk with Sheila, which he found easier as the night wore on. Soon they were laughing with each other, then holding hands, then kissing. Out of the corner of his eye, Darrin spotted Larry making an "A-OK" sign to him, but it seemed sort of hazy.

* * *

It was well after midnight, and most of the guests had gone home. Darrin found Sheila utterly entrancing and had no idea how much time had elapsed. Whatever remained of Darrin's judgement had been drowned in "punch." When Sheila gazed seductively into his eyes and gently tugged on his collar, it seemed only natural to follow her lead upstairs.


	3. Chapter 3

**Chapter 3: The Morning After**

Darrin groggily opened his eyes to sunlight. His head was throbbing in the strange, satin-sheeted bed as he blinked a few times. _Where am I? _His whole body ached, especially his head and back, which felt like it had been clawed by a wild animal.

Still not completely conscious with a terrible hangover, he felt around for clues as he lay. _Brunette hair?_ He ran his fingers through it and . . . his fingers got stuck. He reflexively shook his hand only to find there was no head accompanying the hair.

"AAH!" he yelped, jolting upright in the king-sized bed, throwing the wig to the floor. He realized he was completely naked. "Where are my clothes?" He couldn't even find them on the carpet.

"No. NO. This cannot be happening. It's just a dream. A nightmare," Darrin panicked as he searched around for a clock, finally locating one on the ornate nightstand next to the bed. "11:45? Larry's gonna kill me!"

"Don't worry, darling," called a voice from the bathroom. "Your boss gave you the day off from work."

"What? What's going on?" Darrin wondered as his heart rate sped up.

A beautiful woman in a bathrobe who looked vaguely familiar stepped out.

"Oh, I think you know," Sheila teased, a towel wrapped around her head.

Darrin gulped. "I'm . . . slowly putting together the pieces," he groaned.

"Well, you see, we had a lot to drink, one thing led to another, and, well . . ." Sheila smiled devilishly.

"You seem awfully calm about all this."

"Oh, darling, I forgive you for your . . . _indiscretions. _But how could I not, after last night? You know, not many men could pull that off while drunk, but you performed marvelously. That was the most incredible night I've had in years."

Darrin couldn't believe what he was hearing. The adman covered his face with his hands. "I'm going to lose my job. Larry's going to kill me."

Sheila laughed a tinkling laugh. "On the contrary. I believe the term he used last night as we went upstairs was, 'you son-of-a-gun.' Anyway, he seemed pleased. So did Daddy. He just wants me to be happy. And I will be, once you do that again, you _ravisher_, you."

If it had been just a few decades later, Darrin may have been able to sue for sexual harassment, not to mention date rape. Unfortunately for him, it was still the 1960s.

Darrin felt stuck. Larry was "encouraging" him to be with Sheila for the sake of the company, and he didn't want to risk upsetting his employment status. But was he trading his integrity for a paycheck? Who would even _want_ to work for a sleazeball like Tate? All while being with a woman he barely knew—although he apparently already knew her in the Biblical sense, which he couldn't exactly reverse.

On the other hand, it wasn't like Sheila resembled a troll or anything. So she wore a wig to cover up hair destroyed by decades of product overuse. She was still drop-dead gorgeous—not to mention filthy rich—and many men would kill to be in Darrin's position. Being ordered to take a day off from work to sleep with a beautiful woman—albeit a conniving bitch—might not be so bad.

Darrin swallowed. "I—I'm kind of hungry, actually."

Sheila shrugged. "All right. I suppose we must fuel the inner beast. You'll find a clean suit in the closet over there."

"What? Where's my tuxedo from last night?"

"Being dry-cleaned, darling. It was at the tailor's, where Jacques took your measurements and custom-made that new suit for you for this morning. It's hanging in the closet."

Darrin shook his head in disbelief. _Who can afford a 24-hour personal tailor on call? Oh . . . right._

Sheila got dressed as Darrin attempted to take one dizzying step after another out of bed to the closet. And lo and behold, the suit fit perfectly.

"My, you look handsome," Sheila cooed, now attired in a light pink dress and with a new wig in place. "What shall I tell the cook you want for brunch?"

Darrin figured he might as well make the most of things and order his favorite breakfast. "Blueberry pancakes!" Perhaps they would make him feel better, too.

"Blueberry pancakes?" she sneered. "How about a _croissant au buerre_?"

"I guess that's okay," Darrin shrugged, slightly disappointed.

As they chatted some more at brunch (which, to Darrin's delight, was scrumptious), he couldn't help but notice the expressions of the servants as they walked by. Some chuckled to themselves, others rolled their eyes, and still more looked relieved that Sheila had finally found a new boy-toy to keep her occupied. Darrin noticed she was being much nicer to the staff today. Gradually his headache faded to a dull pulsing.

Once they finished eating, Sheila delicately patted her lips with a cloth napkin. "Well, Mr. Stephens. We have a lot of work to do today. Shall we get started?"

"Indeed," Darrin said. Despite his initial misgivings, there were certainly worse ways to spend an afternoon.

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"DARRIN! YES! Yes, oh, don't stop!" screamed Sheila in bed, digging her nails into his back.

Darrin was screaming too, but more in pain than pleasure. He fought back hard with his thrusting, which made Sheila even wilder. She climaxed multiple times to Darrin's one, and he was sure her caterwauling could wake the dead.

Even after it was all over, Sheila would not unclench him. "I am _not_ letting you go, darrrling," she panted.

Darrin, sweaty, spent, and exhausted, didn't have much of a choice. He grunted.

"Nope. Not until you tell me how you could possibly be so incredible." She hugged him tighter and nibbled his ear.

Except for his scarred back, Darrin did feel pretty good. Sheila was something else, all right.

"Well . . ." he began to explain in a worn-out voice, "apparently I have this talent for sensing what people want, and, uh . . . adjusting myself accordingly. It's helped me out in my career and . . . other things." He kissed her and she rolled on top of him, straddling him to run her long-nailed fingers down his chest. "That, and I box a little. Just to work out, you know," he attempted to say nonchalantly.

"I'm sure your skills have come in very handy . . . in your career," she purred. "You must be one of the youngest vice presidents on Madison Avenue."

"Vice president? Where'd you get that idea? I'm just a copywriter."

Sheila's mouth dropped open as she plopped down on his groin, causing Darrin to wince.

"You—you're not a vice president? But . . . Daddy only invites top executives to his parties. Why were _you_ there?"

"I don't know. Larry invited me. I only just started with McMann and Tate."

"Ugh!" Sheila spat as she dismounted Darrin and knelt in the bed to face him. "What am I supposed to do? The staff, my friends, our social circle—they're all convinced I landed myself a top executive. What am I supposed to tell them? I had the night of my life with a _copywriter?"_ She began to sob.

Darrin's face grew red. He thought he was rather successful for his age. Still, he hated to see a woman cry.

"Oh, don't cry," he hugged her gingerly, trying to console the poor little rich girl. "Larry says that in a few years, I might make account executive."

Sheila cried even harder. "That's still not vice president! But by the time you make _that_, you'll be just another one of those gray-haired louses Daddy always brings over!"

Darrin considered telling her that she'd be older too, but decided against it. Sheila sobbed some more into his chest. Eventually they subsided into sniffles, then stopped. Sheila looked up and moved away from him.

"Wait a minute. Maybe what they don't know won't hurt them," she began to scheme.

Darrin scooted up into a sitting position. "What?"

"Hmm. Tell me. How much money do you make?"

"Not much."

Sheila narrowed her eyes. "I'm sure Daddy can arrange something with your boss."

"No, Sheila. I want to earn my way up the business ladder myself." He was adamant.

"But Darrin—"

"No. It's a matter of pride."

Sheila scoffed. "All right, fine, if you want to do it the hard way. I suppose you wouldn't be averse to keeping up appearances, at least?"

Darrin stiffened. "What you you mean?"

"Oh, you know. A gold watch here, an Italian suit there. I'd buy them for you, of course. But _they_ don't have to know that."

The copywriter shook his head. "I don't know, Sheila. This sort of rubs me the wrong way."

Sheila lowered her voice. "Darrin, let me make something crystal clear: I am _not _going to let you get away from me. Ever. Not after _that_. Now, do you want all the trappings of the jet set or not?"

He paused, weighing the consequences.

"Think about it, darling. We could be sunning ourselves on a private beach in California. Golfing with your brand-new set of clubs. Socializing with all the _best_ families in the Hamptons every weekend," Miss Sommers illustrated. "You'd have everything you ever wanted with just a snap of your fingers."

Darrin paused again. His mind was racing. After all, he never had much growing up. They had enough to get by during the Depression, but many a Christmas would pass without Darrin getting the things he wanted most—a whistling yo-yo, an eight-bladed pocketknife . . .

"Come on, Darrin. Only a fool would pass this up." She wrapped her arms around the back of his neck and gave him a short kiss.

Slowly, a smile began to creep across his face. "Okay."


	4. Chapter 4

**_Thanks very much to __BlueOrbs998, hawaii50girl, maurine, and Arfies for your kind reviews! I still only have a few subscribers, but I hope that you'll continue to leave feedback (and I hope that people still discover this story __somehow__!) It means quite a lot to me._**

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**Chapter 4: April in Paris**

**April, 1964**

Samantha and Rollo had been together for over eleven years, which was practically nothing in the lives of near-immortals such as themselves. Endora was right—he was quite the charmer. Samantha was relatively happy with him, but still felt there was something missing. She had a (fairly well-founded) suspicion that Rollo had a wandering eye, but chose to ignore it for the sake of the relationship. It wasn't like other warlocks were much better. After all, they could have anyone or anything they wanted, whenever they wanted, and thousands of years to have them. Why settle down with one person? Why work for anything? Why have any obstacles at all to pleasure?

Mortals didn't have that "problem." Perhaps that was one of the reasons why Samantha had always found them so fascinating throughout her life. Every so often, she would defy her mother's orders and sneak off to explore the mortal world alone, away from her parents' constant bickering, to see how the "other half" lived. It was her own secret place where she could be herself, and not what her family thought she _should_ be. There, no one knew who or what she was—something that suited the witch just fine.

Most of the time, though, she would visit the mortal world with another of her kind. Sometimes she would take Rollo to one of the places she had explored, describing mortal customs to him like a tour guide. Often she would go out to lunch with her mother—being an only child, she was usually Endora's sole source of company. Today, however, she was in Paris with Rollo.

As they walked hand-in-hand along the banks of the Seine that night, Samantha noticed how affectionate the mortal French lovers were to each other—they seemed so much happier than the magical couples she knew. The mortal couples the witch saw were constantly touching, talking, kissing, occasionally fighting, then making up to start it all over again. She wondered how she could possibly capture that romantic feeling with her beau.

"Rollo?" she asked as they strolled.

"Yes, darling?"

"Could we . . . spend the night at a hotel here?"

"Of course," he winked. "Hotel Lutetia?"

"That sounds perfect," Samantha grinned. "I thought we could walk—"

Before she could say another word, Rollo zapped the two of them instantly in front of the door to the hotel and offered Samantha his arm as they entered. "—here."

With a snap of Rollo's fingers, a bewildered (and bewitched) clerk gave him a key to a room, unsure of why he didn't bother to explain that one couldn't make a reservation without giving any information.

Rollo closed the door of their hotel room behind Samantha and backed her into it, placing a hand on the door as he moved in for a kiss. "Well, what are we standing here for, darling?"

Samantha edged her way out of the space and circled around him. "Rollo, is that any way to romance a lady?"

"Oh," he chuckled. "I see how it is. I apologize. I completely forgot my manners." With a snap of his fingers, the lights dimmed, lit candles floated in midair, and the bed was covered in rose petals. Samantha now wore a lace negligee and Rollo sported a scarlet satin bathrobe. "Better?"

Samantha rolled her eyes and smiled. "A little."

Rollo wasn't a bad guy, per se; just very much a warlock, with all the trappings of instant gratification. But that wasn't what she wanted at the moment, and the witch wasn't completely sure how to express her desires.

"I was wondering if . . . maybe we could try this the mortal way tonight."

Rollo snorted. "The _mortal_ way? You mean, 'without witchcraft,' the mortal way? You can't be serious!" he laughed.

She grew more confident. "I mean it. I want to try it."

The warlock stuttered with disbelief. "B-but . . . _why? _With witchcraft, everything's absolutely perfect, every time."

"I know." And it was. Mind-blowingly good, even, especially with Rollo. But she was curious, and even a little turned on by the concept of "mortal sex."

Rollo was baffled. "Then why on earth would you want to do something that _disgusting_, that _messy_, that . . . _difficult?_" he spat.

"Because." Samantha didn't think Rollo would understand her real explanation, which was hard for even her to put into words.

He sighed. "All right. But just tonight. And if it doesn't work, well . . ." Samantha quieted him with a kiss of gratitude.

Kissing on the bed was the easy part. More difficult was the knot on the bathrobe, which a frustrated Rollo could just not undo. Hoping Samantha wouldn't notice, he waved it undone. Eventually, after some time, the two were nude.

"Now what?" Rollo asked between the sheets.

"Well, um, I'd imagine it would be like it usually is, just without witchcraft."

"You're not serious."

"Just try it." Samantha tried to be encouraging.

"Ugh," he sighed. "Well, here goes nothing." Taking a deep breath, he attempted to maneuver his way into her with much difficulty. Samantha gasped as she felt his cock finally press into her.

Rollo blinked. "Is it over yet?"

"No."

The warlock gritted his teeth, deciding that if this was going to work, he had better start moving. Reluctantly, he did so. He grunted as he continued to push, quickly running out of breath. Samantha moaned in appreciation, though Rollo obviously wasn't nearly as good as he was when using witchcraft. Soon, though, he was able to start up a rhythm that worked for him, but not for her, even though she was attempting to move her pelvis to help. He seemed like he wasn't really working at trying to pleasure her. Rollo erupted into her and groaned, then withdrew as soon as he could muster up the strength to, gasping for air. Samantha was left unsatisfied.

"I'm sorry, darling," Rollo panted, covered in sweat. "I told you it wouldn't work. And I feel disgusting," he said, wiping himself off with the sheet.

"That's all right," Samantha said, disappointed—though truth be told, she wasn't really expecting it would work. "At least you tried . . . sort of. That's the important thing. We have the rest of our lives to get it right, don't we?"

"The rest of our lives . . . ?" Rollo questioned. _Surely she didn't think we'd be together that long._

"Well, how else are we supposed to kill the time, if not overcoming new challenges?" Samantha turned toward him, leaning on a pillow.

"Same way everybody else does. With fun," Rollo said, exhausted.

"Don't you think that gets boring after a while?"

"Boring? Having the entire world and beyond at our fingertips?"

"Well . . . yes," Samantha stated, looking up at the ceiling. "Everything comes so easily. Where's the meaning in it?"

"'Meaning?' Who says it has to have meaning?" Rollo asked, perplexed at Samantha's existentialism. _Weirdo._

"I don't know," Samantha replied, wistfully. "I just thought it might be nice to work for something for a change."

"You know what _would _be nice? Actually _having_ some fun tonight," said Rollo, zapping himself into a more energetic state.

"Rollo, I said it was fine. We can try again later." Samantha pushed him away from her on the bed.

"But I want to try again _now_," he implored. "Our usual way. I'll never do _that_ again. Besides, I can't leave you unsatisfied."

Samantha wondered if that was for her benefit or for Rollo's ego. Nevertheless, she submitted with a sigh, annoyed that he didn't even bother waiting to put in any effort again for real.

* * *

The next morning, she felt physically amazing, as usual, but emotionally empty . . . as usual.

_Can't I ever have both?_

Samantha, wearing a robe, quietly looked out the window of the hotel down onto the streets in the already-bustling Paris morning. Rollo was still asleep on the bed and she didn't want to wake him. Instead, the witch took the time to observe the mortal world below.

Children played with a ball, businessmen hurried to work, and fashionable ladies strolled as cars sped by in the traffic. Everyone there looked like they had a purpose; a reason for getting up in the morning to do what they had to do. Their lives were limited by their own abilities, but most seemed content with that. Samantha's eyes drifted from building to ornate building, fascinated that every single one was constructed without the aid of witchcraft. Most had been erected within her lifetime, but a few centuries-old landmarks had even been around longer than she had, which was no easy feat. Generations of mortals had lived and died in their shadows. There weren't very many times in Samantha's life where she felt small, but this was one of them. She had to see more.

"Rollo?" she went over to whisper in his ear.

"Hm?" he grunted into the pillow.

"I'm going for a walk. Would you like to come with me or stay in bed?"

"Bed," came the muffled reply.

"Okay," she replied, zapping herself into a smart yellow skirt, blazer, hat, and white pumps. "I'll be back in a few hours."

* * *

Walking down the street, she felt alive and free, just like she had every other time she visited the mortal world alone. Being able to speak many languages—human _and_ animal—since birth was something that came in very handy to the witch, and French was no exception. Samantha was perfectly able to discern all signs, inspect buildings, listen in on conversations, and speak to mortals fluently wherever she was, which was exactly what she did on her self-guided tour that day. Using some coins found on her walk, she bought a breakfast pastry to munch on as she relaxed on a bench, birds pecking at the crumbs left behind.

A few minutes later, a crying little girl ran up to her. _"Où est ma mère?" _she sobbed.

"You can't find your mother?" Samantha responded in French. The young girl shook her head. She couldn't have been any more than five. "Don't worry. We'll see if we can find her," Samantha assured her, wiping tears off the little girl's cheek and taking her by the hand. "What was she wearing?"

The girl described the wardrobe to her, and Samantha scanned the crowd for the woman. She considered using witchcraft, but first she wanted to try solving the problem like a mortal would have to. She and the girl stopped passers-by to ask them if they had seen the girl's mother, but none had. It looked like she was going to have to use magic after all, but in the distance, she spotted a frantic woman matching the description. She turned to the little girl and asked if the woman was indeed her. _"Est-ce que c'est elle?"_

"_Oui! Maman!"_ she cried, running towards her mother. Samantha hurried to keep up with the mortal girl to make sure she didn't run into traffic, but the girl was too fast. Soon she was in her relieved mother's arms, much to Samantha's delight. The mother didn't see the witch as she scolded her daughter for running off, but Samantha smiled to herself at how she was able to help the little girl without resorting to witchcraft. That sense of fulfillment was enough for her.


	5. Chapter 5

**Chapter 5: Lunch**

Samantha remained in a good mood as she walked back to the Hotel Lutetia. As she passed a nearby café, she noticed a familiar face and stopped dead in her tracks. Sure enough, there was Rollo at a table outside, flirting with a pretty French mademoiselle.

"Ahem," Samantha cleared her throat behind them. Rollo panicked and zapped the woman away.

"Samantha, good morning! I didn't see you there."

"Clearly."

Rollo laughed nervously. "You see, Yvette's an artist. She was just showing me some of her work."

"I bet she does etchings," said Samantha coolly.

"Charcoal drawings, actually," Rollo explained. "You should've seen her hands. Very dirty. You know mortals."

"I also know warlocks. You put a spell on her, didn't you?"

Rollo chuckled skittishly again. "Well, she's gone now, so what does it matter?"

"Where, exactly, did you zap her off to?"

"Oh . . . some museum, I think."

"'Some museum?' Do you know how many museums there are in Paris?" the witch questioned. "And thanks to your love spell, all she's going to think about now is how she's going to get back to you. What if she needed to be somewhere? What if she can't get there in time, thanks to you? What if she had family or friends looking for her?"

"Samantha, what are you defending her for?" Rollo asked, confused. "She's just a mortal. You don't even know her. And she seemed awfully interested in me. Doesn't that bother you, at least a little bit?" he grinned.

"It's not _her_ I'm bothered by," Samantha said angrily.

"What are you so concerned about a mortal for? Especially one who fancied yours truly. Mortals certainly don't care about _us_. Why should we care about _them?_ She meant nothing to me. Just a little plaything."

"A _plaything?_ She was a human being!"

Rollo was surprised at his girlfriend's outburst. "Look, it's not like I killed her or anything! What are you so upset about?"

"You can't mess around with people's lives like that just for a moment's pleasure!"

"Why not?"

"'_Why not?' _ They can't defend themselves! They can't do what we can. And they have things they have to do, and not much time to do them. Most are good, moral people, just like us. I think we could learn a lot from them."

"You can't be serious," Rollo scoffed.

"Well I am!" Samantha retorted. "And ta-ta for now." She popped out in a huff, much to the disbelief of nearby diners.

Rollo shook his head._ I don't know where she gets it._

_

* * *

_

Samantha was fuming on Cloud 9 when Endora popped in behind her.

"Mother! I came here to be alone! What are you doing here?"

"Why, I could sense my own daughter's unhappiness far across the atmospheric continuum!" Endora replied. "What is it this time, darling?"

"You wouldn't understand, Mother," Samantha said, rolling her eyes.

"I'll be the judge of that. Let me see," Endora pondered. "It has to do with men, doesn't it?"

"Partially," Samantha sighed.

"Oh, my poor baby. They don't deserve you," she comforted, giving her daughter a light hug. "Come on. Let's have lunch in London and forget all about it."

* * *

Endora had bought a lovely picnic lunch for the two of them in Green Park using zapped-up money. Considering her previous mood, Samantha would have scolded her about tampering with the mortal economy, but she appreciated her mother's gesture so much that she let it it slide. Besides, the lunch didn't cost too much, and it was delicious. The conversation was pleasant, enjoyable, and helped take her mind off of Rollo.

Samantha was almost done with her roast beef sandwich. "While we're in London, could we visit Daddy at the Warlock Club?"

"Ha! Your father with one of those reprehensible 'Kitty Girls' is the last thing I'd want to see at the moment," Endora scoffed. "I'll never know what I saw in that man."

"Surely _something_," Samantha grinned knowingly.

"Well . . . I'll admit he hasn't been a _complete_ disaster as a father," Endora acknowledged. "But as a husband, that's another matter entirely."

"What made you fall in love with him in the first place?" her daughter asked, taking another bite.

"Oh, I suppose he was charming and debonair. Once. Eons ago. He still had his looks then," Endora reminisced, sipping Cabernet Sauvignon. "All the witches fell for him. I suppose I should have seen what was to come, though, when—" She stopped herself.

"When what?"

Her mother paused. Very primly, she took a deep breath through her nose. "We had just moved to America then. It seemed like the 'in' place to be in the 17th century. Soon, we were expecting a baby. You," she beamed at her daughter wistfully. "It was the eve of the Galactic Rejuvenation and Dinner Dance. Maurice was attending a cricket match on Jupiter—or so he claimed. I was in labor and cried out for him desperately, but he was nowhere to be seen. Eventually he did fly to my bedside, but . . . it was too late. He had missed your birth," Endora sighed. "Later on, I had heard through the grapevine that he wasn't on Jupiter at all. He had been on Venus . . . with another woman."

Samantha was in shock. "But _Daddy?_ He—he couldn't! Not then!"

"Maurice never forgave himself for that. I think that's why he spoils you so. It's his way of apologizing, I imagine," Endora surmised. "You really are the apple of his eye. But did he ever apologize to _me _for not being there? Oh, in his pseudo-poetic words, yes, even though he never directly admitted to philandering. Fool that I was, I fell for his flowery language and forgave the man. However . . . later actions spoke louder than words," she said, taking another sip.

Samantha continued to shake her head in disbelief.

"Again, I should have seen it coming," Endora continued. "He simply could not resist the spirit of conquest."

The young witch's mind flashed. Her father, then George, and now Rollo, too?

"Are _all_ warlocks like that?" Samantha asked, a sinking feeling in her stomach.

"Ha!" Endora burst out. "Who isn't? Men are all the same. They're all charm and roses until someone new catches their eye. The only thing you can do is beat them at their own game. Enjoy the attention, and then move on. Believe me, you'll be much happier that way. And for goodness sake, don't marry the wrong man. If someone were to break your heart, my child, I don't think I could bear it," Endora said, stroking her daughter's cheek.

"But . . . how do I know who's the 'right man' or the 'wrong man?' What if you had married the 'right man' in the first place, Mother?"

Endora smirked to herself, then smiled warmly at Samantha. "Because if I had, my dear, I never would've had you. And I wouldn't give you up for anyone."


	6. Chapter 6

**Chapter 6: Satucket**

**May, 1964**

For three years, Darrin and Sheila had traveled the world in five-star hotels, luxury ocean liners, and first-class jets. Restaurants, sporting events, balls, beaches, the theater, exotic locales—it was beyond Darrin's wildest boyhood dreams. The son of a blue-collar worker was now, to all who saw him, a member of the blue-bloods. The problem was, he was a red-blooded American boy who felt like something, somehow, was still missing from his life.

His chic Manhattan bachelor apartment was stocked with souvenirs and tokens of Sheila's affection—not to mention his closets, shelves, and drawers. Even more were cluttering his office at McMann and Tate, as were photographs of the couple's adventures.

Today's adventure, after an extended trip around Cape Cod, was sailing up Massachusetts' Satucket River in a cabin cruiser—courtesy of Shorty Richards, a Sommers family friend.

Sheila sported a revealing pink top, white capri pants, scarf, and cat-eye sunglasses. Darrin was in a red polo shirt and khaki pants.

"Oh, darling, isn't this absolutely divine?" Sheila cooed, the wind blowing through her scarf.

"Mm-hmm," Darrin replied. It was rather fun steering a luxury boat throughout the scenic area. Breezes rustled the leaves of trees as birds dipped into the water.

"You know what would make this even better?" Sheila asked him.

"What?"

"Seeing you shirtless," she said seductively, sneaking up behind him. "Those rippling muscles, working so hard . . ."

"Sheila, no. I forgot the suntan oil. I'm not going to risk burning myself again," he said, recalling his unpleasant time in Ibiza. "And _what_ rippling muscles?"

"These!" She began to tug his shirt upward eagerly.

"Sheila, cut it out! I'm trying to steer! Hey!"

Suddenly, the boat skidded and thunked its way aground. The two were knocked over on the deck. "Oof!"

Darrin rubbed his head and helped Sheila up. "Now look what you did!"

"_I_ did? _You_ were the one who was supposed to be steering!" Sheila accused.

"I was, until _someone _decided to distract me!"

"Let's not point fingers," Sheila said, changing the subject. "Besides, can't you reverse this thing?"

"Sheila, I'm not sure if you're aware of this, but boats are generally designed for the water, not the ground," he said passive-aggressively. Darrin tried to turn on the boat's radio in an attempt to call for help. "Great. It's broken."

"What do we do?" Sheila began to panic. "We're marooned!"

"We're not exactly in the middle of nowhere, you know," Darrin reassured her. "We'll just have to walk to the nearest town and see if we can find someone to tug the boat out. It's not far. We're certain to run into somebody."

"Darrin, I can't walk in these shoes through the mud! They'd be ruined! Unless, of course . . . you carried me."

"No offense, Sheila, but I can't carry you that far. We're surrounded by mud, rocks, and grass. We're by a_ river_," Darrin reminded her. "I'll just have to go myself. It won't take long. The cabin cruiser has food and all the amenities. You'll be safe here." He began to climb out, but Sheila grabbed his waist.

"Oh, Darrin, don't leave me! There are wild animals out there!" Sheila wailed.

"Squirrels?" he mused.

"What if somebody gets to me before you do? I'd be so frightened!"

Darrin's gentlemanly side would not allow him to leave now. "Fine. We'll stay. Someone's bound to come along sooner or later."

Sheila kissed him. "My hero."

* * *

The day passed without anyone coming by, and the couple considered themselves fortunate that they had packed so much food as well as magazines, cards, and a transistor radio. Darrin was actually beginning to enjoy himself and the impromptu "camping." Night came, and the two found the cabin cruiser bed surprisingly comfortable. Darrin wondered if the sex that followed would rock the boat back into the river or deeper into the ground. Despite the vigorous bout, it was in the same position as before.

"Oh, darling, you were unbelievable, as always," a sweaty Sheila panted into his ear.

"Must be the fresh air. It's invigorating," a tired Darrin joked, slapping his chest. He couldn't deny that the situation was rather romantic, even if a small part of him had doubted for a long time if he actually loved Sheila.

"Wouldn't it be wonderful if it were always like this?" she asked, knowing that he was always at his most vulnerable in bed.

"Mm-hmm," he replied, exhausted.

"I was thinking, Darrin," she pondered, "that it _could_ be. And _should _be. Just us, just like this. Forever."

"In a boat?"

"No, silly. We could be married."

Darrin paused. "Married?"

"Of course, darling. How would you like to make me Mrs. Darrin Stephens?"

"Sheila, is this a proposal?"

"What does it sound like? We've been going together for over three years now," she reminded him. "Well, what do you say?"

He couldn't say no.

* * *

Early the next morning, it was rather chilly, so Darrin found a spot away from the boat suitable for a campfire. He enjoyed listening to the birds begin their early morning songs and to the lone cricket that continued to chirp. Sheila had pulled out some cloth folding chairs to sit by the fire in style as the two contemplated life and the future.

"Oh, darling, I can't wait! And I know Daddy will pull out all the stops for the wedding . . . and honeymoon," Sheila tickled her fiance.

"And after? Where would we live? Not in your father's house, I hope. No offense to him, but . . . "

"Of course not. Daddy would buy us our very own mansion. Nearby, obviously. Wouldn't want to get _too_ far away from our social circle, you know. But I'm sure he would throw in a few more houses if we wanted to get away for a spell."

For some reason, all this talk about "throwing in a few more houses" as if they were merely cheap accessories bothered Darrin as he stared into the fire. He tried to change the subject. "What do you think about children?"

"_Children?_" She sounded as if she were choking.

"Sure. I thought it might be kind of nice to have a family someday."

Sheila looked him in the eye. "Have you not noticed that the entire time we've been together, I never got pregnant?"

"I thought you were on the Pill?"

"I don't _have_ to be."

"Oh," Darrin replied, thinking it meant she couldn't have children. "That's okay. We could adopt."

"Darrin, I don't think you're quite following me. I decided a long time ago that I never wanted any of the filthy little things. In fact, Daddy paid for the surgery himself."

Stephens was taken aback by perhaps too much information.

"Besides, children would've just gotten in the way of our marvelous adventures. And _us_," she cooed. "But think about it. We could continue to travel around the world without_ anything _tying us down. Don't you want that?"

"I guess so," replied Darrin.

"And they'd just _ruin_ all of your nice things—knock over your golf trophies, drool all over your suits, break your picture frames, chew on your slippers . . . "

"Are you talking about kids or dogs?"

"Children, of course," Sheila replied matter-of-factly. "Dogs are much more well-behaved."

_You should know_, Darrin thought to himself.

"Well, how about some breakfast?" she queried.

They munched on some fruit and English muffins as they returned to magazine-reading and chatting about less important minutiae through the afternoon. When Sheila was calm, she was actually somewhat pleasant, and Darrin could almost picture himself being married to her. Almost.

Around 3 o'clock, a bell rang faintly in the distance, or at least Darrin thought it did. A little later, they both heard it and perked up. Darrin squinted to see a tugboat coming towards them.

"Hey! Over here!" he yelled, waving his arms.

The tugboat captain, once he and his crew reached the scene, was kind enough to help them out of their predicament. "You got it stuck all right," he smirked as he shook his head, thinking it was yet another example of rich people not knowing how to control their own watercraft. "It's awful shallow around these parts."

"If it's not too much trouble?" Darrin asked the captain.

"No, not at all. Finished the rest of my work this morning. Seems like a big job, but we can try."

As the tugboat pulled, Darrin and the rest of the crew pushed with all of their might to get the cabin cruiser back into the water. Sheila took it upon herself to bark orders from the deck.

"You idiots! To the left! No, I _meant _your other left!" she shrieked. "Ugh, and you people call yourselves professionals!"

An embarrassed Darrin mouthed a "sorry" to the crew pushing alongside him, but mostly they just found Sheila amusing.

"And you're getting married, huh? Good luck," a crew member said to him _sotto voce_. Darrin felt a distinct pang of dread.

Eventually, the boat was coaxed back into the water. The crew cheered, and Darrin wasn't sure if it was because the task was completed or because the force of it knocked Sheila over on the deck.

Not knowing the extent of the damage to the boat, Darrin asked the captain, "Do you think she'll make it to the nearest marina?"

"I think so. But we'll tug you there just in case."

Stephens thanked him profusely.

When they finally made it to the marina, Darrin offered the tugboat captain a large tip, which he refused. "It's on the house. Consider it a wedding present," the captain winked. "Speaking as a married man, you'll need all the money you can get."

_Not with J. P. Sommers' daughter_, Darrin thought to himself ruefully. _I can't give Sheila anything she couldn't just ask her father for, except for maybe a good time in bed._ _But . . . what does that make __me__?_

A tired Darrin and Sheila packed together their things, made arrangements for repairs to the cabin cruiser, and called a cab back to Shorty's.

* * *

In the cab, Miss Sommers was smiling about the whole affair. "What do you think Shorty will say about all this?"

"I think he'll fall right out of his elevator shoes," Darrin said honestly. "He loves that boat."

"I meant our engagement," Sheila clarified. "As for the cabin cruiser, I know Daddy will reimburse him. But, oh, I just _can't_ wait to tell everyone about _us!_"

* * *

_**To be continued . . . please leave a review! :-) Or, if you're so inclined, tell your friends?  
**_


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